


Part of Me Was Happy

by Lauralot



Series: Alexander Pierce should have died slower [11]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Non-Sexual Age Play, Painkillers, Past Abuse, Past Sexual Abuse, Past Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-21
Updated: 2015-03-21
Packaged: 2018-03-18 20:29:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3582903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lauralot/pseuds/Lauralot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bucky's first trip out of the Avengers Tower leads to an accidental rendezvous with a past handler.</p><p>The second time, it's intentional.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Part of Me Was Happy

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to [ravenously](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ravenously/pseuds/ravenously), [bofurrific](http://archiveofourown.org/users/bofurrific/pseuds/bofurrific), [WritingCyan](http://archiveofourown.org/users/WritingCyan/pseuds/WritingCyan), [angel_guerrera](http://archiveofourown.org/comments/17720870), and everyone else who requested to see more Rumlow for inspiring this installment!

**He knew what it was like to be so empty that you took whatever people gave you. She knew the loneliness of being locked in a pitch-black room with nothing to do but wait. She knew that there came a point when your mind told you everything was wrong, but your body betrayed you anyway, reaching out for whatever comfort was offered.**

**She swallowed, starting again. "When he came back into the room," she began, "part of me was… happy."**  
— _Kisscut_ , Karin Slaughter

  


Natasha slips around the corner and Bucky’s alone.

He isn’t really alone, of course. For one thing, the straps over his shoulders support the barely there yet ever-present weight of Bucky Bear, zipped up safely in his backpack. For another, no one’s ever fully alone in a shopping mall. There are people all around. Not pressed right up against Bucky as some were when he was closer to the stores instead of secluded near the women’s restroom, but not so far from arm’s reach.

He keeps his arm firmly at his side, hand in his pocket. He’s wearing a glove, but Bucky’s not taking any chances. Coming here at all was enough of a risk.

Technically, Bucky’s free to leave the tower whenever he pleases. It’s leaving New York City that he’s not allowed to do without arranging the details with the authorities beforehand, the way he had to when he went to San Diego. But New York is fair game, provided he’s not unattended and he’s wearing the tracking bracelet around his ankle. Bucky imagines that’s for pragmatic purposes rather than any desire of the courts to see him get fresh air and socialization. If there was an emergency—if he tried cutting his arm off again or something—it wouldn’t look good if war hero Bucky Barnes bled out because of too much red tape before he could be rushed to a hospital.

War hero. It’s a little dizzying to know that there are people out there who think of him that way. He can’t be sure how much of the public really holds that view, though, as his sources of information are skewed. JARVIS is programmed to restrict Bucky from any negative mentions of himself online.

This is his first excursion out of the tower since San Diego. The original plan was to visit Central Park, but it’s raining outside. So he and Natasha, Clint, and Sam are here instead. Sam had suggested they stay in and save the park for another day, but Bucky had wanted a change of scenery badly enough that they decided on the mall.

Bucky isn’t sure exactly where they are. He isn’t like Steve, able to find his way around the city no matter how much has changed since the forties. It’s still a struggle to remember the layout of streets _from_ the forties. Wherever they are, it’s far from the tower, in a less pleasant part of the New York. Not dangerous, but run down enough that the shoppers are too focused on their own purses or purchases to pay much attention to the man in a baseball cap with his hand in his pocket.

Sam and Clint are still shopping. Natasha and Bucky had excused themselves to the restrooms. He thinks Natasha was meant to escort him right to the door of the men’s room, but instead she’d left him to cross the space alone. Her trust is overwhelming until he realizes he’s a grown man marveling that he’s allowed to use the bathroom unattended. Even HYDRA had expected him to piss on his own.

HYDRA. _Don’t think about HYDRA._ Not now, away from the tower, away from Steve. HYDRA feels less concrete in these circumstances, more of omnipresent bogeyman ready to steal him away should he linger too long in the shadows than a human organization to despise and destroy. Not that it was ever Bucky doing the destroying. There’s a feeling like tentacles squeezing in his chest and only the weight of the bear in his backpack reminds him to breathe. He can’t afford to get paranoid, not when there are innocent people around. He has to pull himself together before he starts seeing Pierce in the face of that old man seated on a nearby bench, or imagines Rumlow shuffling out of the Apple store.

Except. That _is_ Rumlow shuffling out of the Apple store.

He carries himself as he had during the trial: stiffly, struggling to hold himself upright in too-tight skin. He moves like he was a soldier, like he still wants to walk as one, but his injuries won’t allow it. His hair is longer than it was in the court, lacking any sort of product, a sharp contrast from the commander of Bucky’s memories. He’s holding a very old MacBook under his arm as he walks.

For a second, Bucky can’t feel anything at all.

Then it comes crashing over him, a maelstrom of emotions threatening to drown him in the undertow. His chest is constricted again, heart hammering loud and fast, overcome with so much sensation that all Bucky can manage to think is a vague wonder as to whether this is what Steve’s asthma attacks felt like. It can’t be real—Bucky has to be imagining—but if he were going to hallucinate Rumlow from stress, why would he appear so broken? The handlers in his nightmares are never weak.

He’s beginning to hyperventilate, breaths growing shallow and rapid. It won’t be long before he grows loud enough to draw attention to himself, before he catches Rumlow’s eye. Rumlow hadn’t looked at him once during the trial. Whenever they were last face to face before that is a memory lost to the chair and not yet recovered.

Bucky wants to snap his neck. To run away. To pin Rumlow down, force electricity through him, and see how he likes it. He wants Rumlow to order him to stand at ease and to ignore the ache growing in his chest. He wants to beat him senseless.

Standing there, frozen, Bucky finds himself suddenly aware again of the gentle weight of his backpack. He envisions the bear inside, pictures himself holding it, safe in the tower and far from this surge of feelings. _Don’t make a scene,_ the bear seems to say. _You need to step away from this. It’s too big for you._

Too big.

It’s not a conscious choice to regress. His emotions spin tighter and tighter before snapping under the strain. It’s too much to handle and still be a grown-up, so he isn’t.

Eyes wide but breath slowing, Bucky’s still staring at the Commander. It’s much quieter inside his head now. For the past week, Daddy’s been reading a book to Bucky before bed, something he says they read in their childhoods called _Peter Pan_. Bucky can’t remember hearing it before, but he likes the book so far and the fairy especially. Fairies are so small, the book says, that they can only have one feeling at a time. Bucky’s not that little, but he’s not so upset at Commander Rumlow when he’s five.

The Commander never made _him_ go on missions, after all. The Commander made him pancakes and let Bucky sit on his lap when his tummy hurt.

It doesn’t take Bucky long to catch up to the Commander. His hand darts out of his pocket and holds onto Rumlow’s.

Just like that, the Commander stops walking.

“Uh,” says Bucky. The Commander’s gone really stiff, staring down at the hand in his own instead of looking at Bucky. And then Bucky can’t help but look at the floor. Maybe the Commander doesn’t want to see him. Maybe he hadn’t liked taking care of him. “Hi, Commander.”

And then Rumlow _is_ looking at him; Bucky can feel the stare. He raises his head, wishing he didn’t have the hat on so his hair could help cover his face. Rumlow’s eyes are wide and glassy, the brown in them almost completely swallowed by the black. He doesn’t look happy.

Bucky ducks his head back down. He hadn’t thought about what he would do after he grabbed Rumlow’s hand. He hadn’t even really planned to do that. “Um,” he says. “Remember me?”

The Commander’s hand is shaking and Bucky starts to feel sick to his stomach. The Commander definitely doesn’t want to see him. “You took care of me on that mission,” Bucky says, because he has to say _something._ “In, uh, the house with the snow. You made really good pancakes. With chocolate chips. Remember?”

“Yeah.” The Commander’s voice isn’t shaking. It’s harsh and fast, like he has a sore throat. There’s a food court in the mall with drinks and ice cream, but Bucky isn’t sure which way it is. He isn’t sure if Rumlow wants to walk with him either. “I remember.”

“You helped me at my trial.” Bucky’s free hand is fidgeting with the strap of his backpack, his eyes still focused on the Commander’s shoes. “Remember? And Maria said she helped with your trial too.” Rumlow isn’t in prison because of what Daddy calls a technicality. It had something to do with paperwork that wasn’t processed right, but Bucky hadn’t really understood. “Maria’s a really good lawyer.”

“Yeah,” says the Commander, still sounding like his throat hurts. When Bucky risks another glance up, Rumlow is looking every which way, at all the people, shops, and exits around them. He used to do that on missions when the team needed to be sure of a way out. Bucky did it too, when he was the asset. Maybe the Commander’s on a new mission. Except he’s probably not allowed to do that now, and Bucky’s first daddy is dead anyway. Who would be planning the missions?

“I, uh, I’m glad you’re not in jail.” He holds the Commander’s hand a little tighter, the way his daddy will hug harder if Bucky’s trembling. Not too hard, though. “You were really nice to me when I was upset. Remember? And you were good at your job, too. I think. I forgot some stuff.”

Rumlow doesn’t answer right away. He’s looking around again, and his shoulders are tensed up. Then his jaw clenches, but the rest of him goes slack. There’s no noise, but his chest moves like he’s sighing. “Kid,” he says suddenly. His throat doesn’t sound so sore now.

“Uh-huh?”

When the Commander just looks at him, eyes narrowed, as focused as Tony looks when he does science, Bucky wonders if that was the wrong answer. Maybe he should have said “yes” instead of “uh-huh.” Maybe “uh-huh” is impolite. He’s pretty sure the Commander used to be very proud of how well-behaved the asset was for him.

But then the Commander’s face goes at least a little softer. “What are you doing here?” he asks. He’s looking around again. “Are you alone?”

Bucky feels a shy little smile starting on his face and covers up his mouth with his free hand. The Commander wants to be sure that Bucky has someone looking out for him. Maybe the Commander isn’t unhappy to see him after all. “I’m here with Sam and Clint and Tasha,” he says. “Remember Tasha? She said you used to work with her. Remember?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I do.” And now Rumlow looks like he’s sick. He’s going all white, eyes even bigger than they were when he first looked at Bucky. He’s breathing too fast, the way Bucky does when he gets worried or upset.

“Hey.” Bucky isn’t sure what to do. The Commander isn’t looking at him anymore; his eyes are all around them again. Gently, Bucky jiggles his wrist a little, trying to draw his focus. When Bucky’s upset, Daddy usually tries to get him to pay attention to something. “Uh, hey. Are you okay? Do you need to sit down? I have money—if you need to drink something—”

“No!”

Bucky flinches. He can’t help it. With his hand still holding Rumlow’s, the movement jars Rumlow’s arm. And just like that, the Commander stops shaking. That ought to be good, except he’s still breathing so hard, face pale. And worst of all, he’s staring right at Bucky now. Bucky’s upsetting him. He’s definitely not supposed to upset the Commander, not under any circumstances.

Then Rumlow closes his eyes and takes a long breath through clenched teeth. “No,” he says when he opens his eyes, not as loud this time. “No, kid, I’m fine. I just—I have somewhere to be—I really need to get going, okay?”

But he can’t go yet because Bucky’s still holding his hand. He doesn’t want to startle the Commander with any more sudden moves. “Are you alone?” The Commander shouldn’t drive when he’s this worked up. On missions, targets always became very bad drivers when they got scared of the asset. “Are you still friends with Agent Rollins? He was on the mission where you made the pancakes too, remember?”

The Commander doesn’t say anything.

“He picked me up and carried me when I got scared,” Bucky says. “Twice. That was really fun. And he told me a story, too. Remember? Are you still friends? He was nice.”

The Commander might have closed his eyes again, but Bucky can’t tell for sure because the Commander turns his head away. His shoulders tense up, and he makes another hissing sound through his teeth, like the movement hurts his scars.

“Commander Rumlow?” The asset isn’t allowed to hurt handlers. And little kids aren’t allowed to hurt anybody unless they’re defending themselves against someone bad. The Commander isn’t bad. “I’m sorry. What did I say wrong? Is Agent Rollins in jail?”

Rumlow shakes his head. He stares at Bucky and smiles. There isn’t much scarring on the Commander’s face, but the burns must still have messed something up, because his smile looks all wrong. “No,” he says, and now his voice is thick. He sounds like he needs to cough. Bucky has a handkerchief in his pocket, but he’s afraid of scaring Rumlow again if he moves to take it out. “No, kid. He’s fine. He’s good. Jack’s just not with me right now. That’s all. Okay?”

“Do you want to hold my bear?” Bucky asks, shrugging a little so his backpack slides down on his shoulders. Bucky Bear is brave enough to make even grown-ups feel better. “He’s really soft.”

“No, kid. Thanks, but I just—I have to leave—you should find your friends before they miss—”

“Rumlow.”

The Commander goes still again. In the backpack, Bucky Bear is frowning; he likes to be helpful. Natasha’s appeared, stiff and calculating the way she is before a sparring match, halfway between where Bucky and Rumlow are standing and the ladies’ restroom. There’s a line out the door of the restroom and Bucky guesses it was crowded when Natasha went in too, because it took her a while. Bucky smiles even though his bear is still frowning. Natasha can help the Commander. She always knows how to cheer Bucky up and she used to work with Rumlow.

When the Commander doesn’t answer Natasha, Bucky jiggles his hand a little again. “That’s Natasha,” he says, in case Rumlow forgot. “She was in STRIKE too. Just not the HYDRA-y part.”

He thinks the Commander tries to answer, but all that comes out is a choked, low noise. He should really drink something. Natasha probably remembers where the food court is.

“Bucky,” says Natasha. Her voice is both soft and hard, like the floor of the lab feels when Bruce lays out blankets. “You need to come here.”

It’s weird to be talking to Natasha: she’s never a grown-up when Bucky isn’t. But the Commander’s never little—he can’t possibly be, or he’d have understood how to be a parent at the house with the snow—so maybe she’s staying big for him. “Hi,” Bucky says. “Do you know where the slushies and stuff are here?”

“I’ll get you one.” Natasha’s not looking at him, her eyes still on the Commander. Bucky doesn’t think she’s blinked once. “But first you need to come over here, all right? Away from Rumlow.”

Bucky looks at the Commander. He still looks white and sick and Bucky thinks he’s here alone. “But—”

“Bucky.” She stares at him now. Natasha’s never sounded so serious before. Not before Avenger missions, not the time Bucky Bear’s arm got torn, never. “Behave and come here. Right now.”

The Commander’s upset, Natasha’s probably mad, and Bucky Bear is definitely still frowning. Bucky gets the familiar sense that he’s done something wrong again without knowing what.

“Bucky,” says Natasha.

Slowly, so the Commander won’t be any more scared than he already is, Bucky lets go. He takes a step back, murmuring a sorry—for what, he isn’t sure, but he’s sure he needs to—before shuffling to Natasha’s side.

And then Natasha’s holding his hand. She’s looking at him, but not just at him. Bucky recognizes the look in her eyes from sparring, like he recognizes the way she stands. Sometimes, they don’t spar alone. Natasha’s eyes move this way when she’s fighting with more than one person. “Thank you, Bucky. Thank you for being good for me.”

He doesn’t feel like he’s been good. But he wants to be good, so he doesn’t argue.

“Rumlow.” Natasha’s voice isn’t soft at all now. “I’ll give you one chance to tell me what you’re trying to pull willingly. You know what happens if you don’t.”

“Trying to pull?” The Commander is still pale, but he’s not so stiff now. His mouth is better at smirking than it is at smiling. He can move when Bucky’s not next to him.

It’s not the first time Bucky’s wished he could just melt into the floor, but usually he doesn’t want to quite this much.

“Trying to pull,” the Commander repeats. “Listen, Romanoff, I’m flattered you still think so highly of me, but it’s not my problem if you can’t keep your pet on a leash.”

“Counting on bravado to save you?” Natasha asks. Bucky can’t be sure if they’re fighting or not. The things they’re saying makes it sound like they ought to be, but both their voices and faces are calm. And they keep glancing at him. “I guess that’s all you have left these days. But you remember what I’m capable of.”

“Apparently entrapment.” The Commander laughs a little, but he doesn’t look any happier as he does. “This your master plan? Track me down and claim I’ve tampered with your toy soldier? I’d expect that passive-aggressive shit out of Rogers—never thought you’d be afraid to get your hands dirty. What’s the matter, Romanoff? You gone soft?”

“Tracked you down?” she repeats. “You think we had to search for you? You think we ever lost you?”

The Commander doesn’t have an answer for that. Bucky hopes that means the maybe-fight is over.

“Get out,” she says.

He turns—“That’s what I fucking wanted in the first place”—and quickly but stiffly heads for the exit.

Once he’s gone, Natasha turns her attention to Bucky, placing her hands on his shoulders. “You’re all right. Do you understand me? You’re safe. But I need to know what Rumlow said to you.”

He’s supposed to look at people when they’re talking to him—he’s supposed to be polite—but all Bucky can do is stare at the space where Rumlow was standing. He should never have left the tower. All he does is mess everything up. “Am I in trouble?”

“No.” Natasha strokes his face, which is really weird because Tasha never does that. “You’re not in trouble at all, Bucky. I was supposed to watch you and I shouldn’t have left you alone. I’m sorry.”

She ought to be able to leave him alone. The whole point of today was to go out and not have any problems. Daddy isn’t with them because Bucky had insisted. He wanted to prove he could take care of himself. He wanted to prove that Daddy didn’t have to worry all the time.

But all he’s succeeded in doing is making everyone upset.

“You’re not in trouble,” Natasha repeats, stroking his cheek again. “I promise. But I need you to tell me what Rumlow said when he found you, all right? It’s very important.”

“He didn’t find me. I saw him and I wanted to say hi.” Bucky can tell from Natasha’s face that he’s said the wrong thing, and he looks down at the floor again. “He didn’t say almost anything.”

“Okay.” Both of her hands are on his shoulders again, drawing him closer. “Just tell me everything he did say. Everything you can remember.”

Shifting his weight on his feet, he thinks back on what little the Commander had said. “Uh...he said he remembered me...and I said Maria was a good lawyer and he said yeah. And he asked if I was alone, and I said no and I asked if he wanted a drink, but he said he had to leave. And I asked if he was still friends with Agent Rollins and if he wanted to hold Bucky Bear, but he said he didn’t want to hold him ‘cause he had to go, and that’s when you came over.”

In the backpack, Bucky Bear hasn’t stopped scowling.

“Did he say anything about Steve? Anything at all?”

“Uh-uh.”

“Anything about Sam? Or me? Anyone at the tower? SHIELD?”

Bucky shakes his head. “Uh-uh.”

“Anything about the Soldier? Or just—any words that didn’t make any sense? Maybe something not in English?”

His eyes are starting to sting. There are so many questions and he can’t remember every last little thing and he still isn’t sure what he’s done that was bad. “ _Uh-uh._ ”

“Okay,” Natasha says, and now she is hugging him. “Okay. Thank you, Bucky. I’m so sorry I left you alone. Let’s go find Clint and Sam, and then we can go home, okay? You can have a slushy before we go.”

Letting her lead him, Bucky doesn’t bother to say that the drink was supposed to be for Rumlow. He’s not going to add arguing to whatever else he’s messed up. And maybe drinking something will stop the fluttery, worried ache growing in his tummy.

But he probably deserves that anyway.

*

Bucky sits on the floor of Daddy’s kitchen with Bucky Bear and a metal colander from the cabinet over the dishwasher. He made Sam reach up to get it for him.

They didn’t go home right away. Instead, Clint took Bucky to get a slushy—blue raspberry—while Natasha talked to Sam in private. Then Bucky got to sit down, sucking through the straw and staining his lips and tongue blue, as Sam asked more questions. A lot of them were the same as Natasha’s. When they did leave, they sat in the car for a long time as Bucky talked to his therapists over Sam’s cell phone. And after they finally got back to the tower, they wouldn’t let him touch or talk to Daddy until Bucky had looked at him through the Hulk-proof windows of Tony’s lab.

It wasn’t until after all that was over that Bucky was allowed to go up to Daddy’s floor of the tower. He slipped into the bathroom—he hadn’t gone in the mall and that was two hours ago now—and when he came out, Sam and Daddy were talking quietly in the living room. They’d asked if he could play with his bear for a few minutes.

Bucky carefully lowers the colander over Bucky Bear’s head. It’s so big that it covers all of the bear up, like a bubble. He can hear murmured voices from the next room, but he can’t make out the words.

What did he do to make everyone so unhappy? Was Bucky not supposed to talk to Rumlow? But Daddy had wanted the Commander to help at the trial. They all had. He’d thought that meant they weren’t mad at Rumlow anymore.

He didn’t mean to make anybody sad. All Bucky wanted was to say hi to someone who had only ever been nice and helped him. And who made really good pancakes. But now everyone here is upset. And the Commander hadn’t been happy either.

The Commander, Bucky decides, hadn’t wanted to see him at all. No matter how nice he’d been on the mission, Bucky had been a problem. He’d messed up the shooting and made a lot of extra work for the Commander. Bucky wasn’t the asset, and the asset was the one the Commander had liked. But now he didn’t seem like he wanted to be around either of them.

The voices in the living room go quiet. Bucky takes the colander off of Bucky Bear and puts it on the counter where no one will trip over it. Gathering Bucky Bear in his arms, he stands up. Bucky Bear’s feeling too out of sorts to say it, but Bucky knows he’s unhappy too. He wanted to see the Commander, to help him calm down, but the Commander was in such a hurry to get away from Bucky that the bear’s feelings got hurt.

“Daddy?” Bucky asks softly, standing in the doorway.

Daddy smiles, patting the couch cushion between himself and Sam. “Hey, Bucky. Want to talk about what happened today?”

Hasn’t he talked about it enough? “Bucky Bear doesn’t feel good,” Bucky says. His left hand, with the glove still on, tugs on the hem of his shirt.

“Okay,” says Daddy, looking at the bear now. “What would make him feel better?” He doesn’t ask Bucky Bear directly because Daddy doesn’t speak Bear.

“He wants a hug.” A really big hug, the kind that flattens out bear stuffing for a second.

When he hands the bear to Daddy, Daddy doesn’t just hug. He straightens Bucky Bear’s collar and kisses his soft red nose. Then Daddy gives him a really, really big hug. It makes Bucky Bear feel a little better, so Bucky sinks down onto the couch.

“Sam told me you saw Rumlow today,” Daddy says. “Can we talk about that?”

“I’m sorry.” The words come out like a reflex, Bucky tensing up as he speaks.

“Hey.” Sam puts his hands on Bucky’s shoulders before Daddy can stop hugging the bear. “This isn’t your fault, Bucky. You couldn’t have known Rumlow would be there. And we shouldn’t have left you alone.”

“But you should be able to!” Bucky twists the hem of his shirt between his hands, shaking his head. “That’s the whole reason why we went out. So I could be good and grown-up and you wouldn’t have to worry all the time. But I just messed it up. That’s all I do.”

“Buck—” Steve begins.

“Listen,” Sam says. He’s using his counselor voice. Sam isn’t even Bucky’s therapist, not really, but ends up being one a lot anyway. Bucky’s tried to pay him for it before—tried to pay his official therapists too—but Sam won’t let him.

That doesn’t help Bucky feel like less of a burden.

“You did really well today, Bucky,” Sam continues. “I mean that. You saw a HYDRA agent and you didn’t go back to being the Soldier or hurt anyone. You did what Natasha asked you to do and you were very patient through all our questions. That’s really good. That shows that even when things go wrong, you can stay in control. This isn’t a setback, Bucky.”

“But I made everybody sad. You and Natasha and Bucky Bear and Rumlow and—”

“No, you didn’t.” Sam speaks firmly, shifting his position on the couch until his eyes meet Bucky’s. “We didn’t plan for the situation and it caught us off guard. It wasn’t anything that you did.”

“Natasha said that you saw Rumlow before he saw you.” Daddy’s still hugging Bucky Bear, just as tight as he was when he started. “That you walked over him to say hello.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I’m not mad at you, Bucky.” Daddy takes one hand off the bear and puts it on top of Bucky’s. “Okay?”

“’Kay.” He knows Bucky Bear wants Daddy’s arm back around him—the hug is less grounding now—but Bucky can’t tell Daddy what to do, not after everything that’s happened today.

“You remember what I always tell you?”

“You’ll never be mad at me,” Bucky recites. He tries so hard to believe it.

“That’s right. It’s not your fault that you get confused sometimes. No one’s going to punish you. We just want to help and understand.” Daddy squeezes his hand, though he can’t feel much of the touch through his glove. “Why did you want to talk to Rumlow?”

“He made pancakes and he calmed me down when I was upset.” Tilting his head forward, Bucky lets his hair hang down in his face. “And he helped at my trial. You—everybody told me I should let him help. I thought you weren’t mad at him anymore.”

Daddy sighs. He puts Bucky Bear down on the arm of the couch and then he’s hugging onto Bucky. “We wanted him to help with the trial because he was the only person we could find who would confirm the things they did to keep you in line, Buck. It was about keeping you safe. But Rumlow hurt you. He hurt all of us. He’s HYDRA.”

Bucky tries to squirm free, but Daddy’s hugging too tight. “But I’m HYDRA too.”

This time when Daddy sighs, he does it so hard that it blows Bucky’s hair back against his ear. “Bucky, you didn’t have a choice.”

“But—”

“Hey.” Sam shifts his weight toward the edge of the couch like he’s about to stand up. “It’s been a long day. How about we all get some lunch, all right? I bet Bucky Bear wants some honey.”

“Bucky Bear’s not hungry,” Bucky says, because he isn’t. “He wants another hug.”

“Is that so?” Daddy slides one arm off of Bucky. When his hand comes back up, the bear is in his grip. He sandwiches Bucky Bear between them and then he’s hugging again, so hard it’s almost a struggle to breathe. “Then I guess I’ll have to hug both of you.”

Sam does stand up then. “Well, I’m getting a sandwich. Let me know when the snuggle party’s dying down and I’ll get out plates for you guys.” He sounds like he’s smiling.

Bucky wishes he could smile back.

*

It strikes him so suddenly he can’t help but laugh.

Bucky’s been checking his email, slowly coming back to himself as he types out replies to his sisters’ messages, when he realizes. Rumlow wasn’t sick. He wasn’t annoyed, either.

Brock Rumlow had been scared shitless by a needy five year old.

And just like that, Bucky’s doubled over, laughing until he’s out of breath, tears streaming down his face. He struggles to compose himself, not because it’s become any less funny, but for fear of worrying JARVIS. And also his ribs ache.

He’d never seen Rumlow frightened before. As a handler, the man had always projected calm and competence. Even in that godforsaken mission when the asset had regressed, Rumlow had still managed confine his visible reactions to mostly anger before he realized what was happening and forced cheer once he did. Whenever the former commander appears in Bucky’s nightmares, he’s a formidable figure, nearly as impassable and inescapable as the chair. It doesn’t matter that Rumlow had never been unnecessarily violent toward the asset; Bucky’s mind excels at transforming any respite into horror while he sleeps.

And now Rumlow had been reduced to struggling not to piss himself when all Bucky wanted was to offer him a teddy bear.

It’s fucking _beautiful_.

He isn’t sure how long Rumlow’s been a free man, or whatever approximation of freedom the Avengers have allowed him. Natasha’s “we never lost you” had rattled the man’s cage, as Bucky’s sure she intended, but the odds are good it’s also true. Rumlow’s a HYDRA true believer; no way would they let him slip out of their sight. Bucky hopes every second of the ex-commander’s ill-gotten freedom has been spent looking over his shoulder, fearful that letting his guard down for even a second will allow a metal hand to close around his throat.

Or his hand. Bucky’s smirking now.

For Rumlow, this hadn’t been some humiliating chance encounter where what was once the world’s greatest assassin had latched onto him, hoping for a word of praise or a hug. For Rumlow, it hadn’t been a chance encounter at all. He must have been envisioning a calculated attack, interpreting the Winter Soldier’s behavior as a trick to lower his guard before the Black Widow came in for the kill or worse. How it must sting to realize that he wasn’t worthy of more than a good scare. How it must eat at him that the whole thing could have been coincidence, and he was never important enough to warrant their effort.

Bucky’s giggling to himself again. He can’t help it.

On his first day back at the tower, Steve had explained that no one would take Bucky’s memories away anymore. Then he’d explained it the next day. And the next. Bucky’s brain was so used to the electricity and forgetting that it had forgotten how to properly store all his recollections for a little bit. He’d wake up confused and uneasy, or he’d just lose a few seconds and be unsure of what was happening when he came to.

Every time Steve had explained, Bucky had wondered why he would _want_ to keep his memories. The few he did have were sharp little fragments slicing up his mind. The thought of facing so much hurt, all the time, forever, had been horrifying. The asset could—would—endure, of course. But he was allowed to dread on the inside.

But this—this is a memory he’ll cherish for the rest of his life. No matter what happens, until the day he dies, all Bucky need do is think back to that moment and he’ll laugh himself sick every time.

The only thing keeping this from being the greatest day of his life is all the stress that Natasha, Steve, and the others went through, thinking they’d left Bucky exposed to be drawn back into some HYDRA scheme. They needn’t have worried. If Rumlow did know any trigger words or other tricks to lure the Soldier back out, he’d been too tongue-tied to try them. Bucky thinks of having JARVIS relay this information to everyone just so they can stop worrying, but it’s almost dinner time and he can just tell his friends once they’re—

His friends. Bucky’s thoughts jolt off course as he remembers Rumlow turning from him, sucking air through clenched teeth. He thinks of the question that made Rumlow stiffen and shut his eyes.

Natasha’s about to step into the elevator when Bucky comes to a stop on her floor. “Hey,” she says easily, no trace of the earlier tension in her demeanor now. “Didn’t want to go to dinner alone? Or are you looking for a sparring partner? Because I’ve got to grab something to eat first, I’m famished.”

When Bucky doesn’t speak, there’s the faintest crease between her brows. “Bucky?”

“Agent Rollins is dead, isn’t he?”

*

Bucky isn’t sure how he ever got Steve to approve a walk outside, at night, unsupervised apart from Natasha’s presence.

He’d always thought Steve could see straight through him. In his earliest days at the tower, when he’d been more asset than human and simply thought of Bucky as a new call sign, he’d attributed this to the near-omniscience he assumed all handlers possessed. Later, he supposed it was because Steve knew him growing up and understood the names for his emotions long before Bucky relearned them himself.

But it appears HYDRA made a better actor out of him than he’d realized.

Steve hadn’t been happy, of course. “Why not give it a day or two?” he’d asked at the dinner table, hand suddenly still with his fork halfway to the plate. “After this morning, wouldn’t you rather take a break?”

“And lose my nerve?” Bucky shook his head. “You know me, Steve. I’d just spend every second thinking of how it could go wrong.”

“I’ll go with you,” Steve had said.

“Steve.” Bucky’s smile was small, apologetic. “The whole point of this morning was supposed to be that you didn’t have to watch me all the time, remember? Besides, Nat will be right there.”

“And Bucky Bear,” Natasha said, smiling as well.

“Right. They’ll keep me safe.”

Natasha isn’t smiling anymore. They walk in silence, Bucky fiddling with the straps of his backpack, and the look in her eyes tells him she knows exactly what he’s planning. Not that he’d expected any less.

He waits until they’re well out of sight of the tower before he speaks. “You said you never lost track of Rumlow. What’s his address?”

She doesn’t answer right away. They pass a little tree planted in a square of dirt on the sidewalk, and Natasha pulls a leaf from it, twirling it by the stem between her fingers. Then, just as Bucky’s decided this is refusal through silence, she speaks. “Steve trusts me, you know.”

“With his life.”

“It wasn’t always that way.” She isn’t looking at him, eyes on the leaf that she’s twirling. Around and around. “And it won’t be like that anymore if he knows I led you to Rumlow.”

If she were going to refuse to tell him, she’d have just said so. Bucky waits, not wanting to risk saying the wrong thing and changing her mind.

“What do you hope to gain from this, Bucky?” Now she is looking at him. There’s no judgment in her eyes, only cold, unflinching practicality. “He won’t apologize. If you’re looking for remorse, you’ll come up empty-handed.”

“I know.”

“I won’t let you kill him. You’re not going to a jail cell over that scum.”

“I know.”

Letting the leaf flutter to the asphalt beneath them, she pauses at a crosswalk. “So why do this to yourself? You’re not just risking an attack or a trigger word. You’re letting him push a blade to your throat. Hell, you’re tilting back your head to expose it. Why give him the opportunity to hurt you again?”

The WALK sign flickers to life. They’re halfway across the street by the time Bucky speaks. He hadn’t planned to—he isn’t sure what to say—but the soles of their shoes on the pavement seems suddenly, unbearably loud. “I don’t know. I just—he—for twelve years, he ordered me on missions. Let them strap me in the chair. For eight years— _eight years_ after he learned what a sick fuck Pierce was, he let it go on. Because his new world order—his place in it—mattered more than my life. And I—I’m free and I’m never going back and he’s broken and alone and I just want to _savor_ it, to show him I’m not some mindless tool anymore. Even if he wouldn’t give a shit. I just—I need to.”

“You know what Steve would say to that?” Natasha asks.

“That living well is the best revenge.” And that’s rational. But he can’t be rational. Not about this. “What do _you_ say?”

Natasha mulls it over. “That, even knowing it would bring me no catharsis, I’d want a chance to do the same to the people who used me.”

Bucky nods. Steve is the greatest friend he could ever ask for, but he doesn’t always understand. He doesn’t know what it’s like to be hollowed out from the inside and filled back up with lies and pain. He’s never had people bring him to his lowest point and then find ways to bring him even lower for their own amusement. Natasha does. She’s invaluable whether she’s seven or thirty. She’s the anchor he needs when Steve can’t keep him tethered. “So will you tell me his address?”

“You don’t know the streets anymore.”

“I can still follow directions.” That was trained into him so long ago.

“Or you can follow me.” Natasha turns a corner, and Bucky trails behind her. “You think I’m letting you do this and not watching like a hawk?” She smiles. “I’m insulted.”

“My lady.” Bucky dips into a bow and despite her best efforts, Natasha can’t hide her laugh. “However shall I right this grievous offense?”

“Once you’re done with Rumlow,” she replies, “you’re buying me a froyo.”

*

He lets Rumlow hear him slip through the window.

If Bucky wanted, he could be silent. No one ever heard the Winter Soldier before he wanted them to. Often, their first alert to his presence was a bullet through the chest or a knife in the throat. But Natasha was firm that whatever Bucky had to say, he had only half an hour to say it. There’s no sense in wasting time.

Rumlow doesn’t turn toward the sound, though the tension through him makes it clear he’s heard. He’s lying on the couch, staring up at the ceiling. “If you’re here to kill me, you might as well get started.”

“What makes you think you’re worth the effort?”

It’s the sort of apartment Bucky imagined a freed yet hated HYDRA agent could actually get. Cramped, dim, walls thin enough that every word of the sitcom playing next door is intelligible. What few possessions fill the space are functional rather than decorative, and secondhand from the look of them. There’s no television. Every cabinet in the kitchenette is closed, dishes lying neatly arranged on a drying rack. Everything is ordered, in place, but the floors need sweeping and there’s a thin layer of dust on several of the surfaces. Rumlow wants to present the illusion of control, even to an empty room, but it seems he’s more hobbled by his injuries than he’s willing to admit.

Rumlow manages not to wince or hiss when he sits up, though his movements suggest the action pains him. His eyes are still more black than brown. Bucky can guess at the amount of painkillers stashed in the cabinets. “Then what the hell do you want? If this is an interrogation, you’re not getting anything out of me.”

“You could be a little more welcoming.” Bucky steps further into the room and Rumlow may be able to keep from trembling, but he can’t hide the tension through his frame. “Not like anyone else’s ever come to visit you. Have they?”

“Tell me something I don’t know.” He makes his voice so nonchalant that, even knowing it’s bravado, Bucky can’t help but grit his teeth. He clenches his hands—the knuckles of his flesh fingers go white—fighting the urge to toy with the straps of his backpack again.

Rather than answer, Bucky walks past the couch. He hopes it pains Rumlow when the man turns his head to track the movement. Instead than a television or radio, the corner of the room hosts a punching bag and sets of weights. They’re in better shape than anything else in Bucky’s line of sight, so he assumes they’re something Rumlow managed to hold onto from before his life went to hell. “What’s the use?” he asks, pushing at the bag with his metal hand. The chain creaks as it swings back and forth. “Your body isn’t capable of this anymore.” The bag slows and he pushes it again, a little more forcefully. “Or are the memories of your glory days all you have left?”

“Don’t fucking touch that,” Rumlow snaps and instantaneously, automatically, Bucky steps back.

For a second, there’s only the sound of the gently creaking chain. Then Rumlow laughs. “Runs deeper than you like, huh?”

There’s a flush to his face, a burning at the back of his throat. Bucky would like nothing more to bash Rumlow’s teeth from his skull and then force feed them back to the man, but the asset...Damn it, the _relief_ that floods the asset at having an order to obey is as all-encompassing as it is nauseating.

At the tower, there are almost never orders. Suggestions and gentle coaxing, but never harsh, sudden demands. The asset’s back on solid ground for the first time in what feels like an eternity.

Swallowing back bile, Bucky tries to ignore the drowning sensation spreading in his chest. He exhales and calmly, deliberately places his hand back against the bag. “Care to test it?” Bucky pushes a third time. It isn’t a hard contact, but the creaking that follows resounds through the room. “You want to find out how deep it runs?”

“I want to be left alone.” Rumlow’s on the edge of the couch, as taut and fuming as Bucky is. They’re both nearing a snapping point, but Bucky’s will be far more destructive. “Is this really what you came for, Soldier? You want to laugh at my home design? Poke a stick at a cripple?”

“It’s no more than you deserve.” From the corner of his eye, Bucky watches the shadow of the punching bag move back and forth across the wall. He remembers long ago, lying in a bed and watching a shadow creep down the hallway, closer and closer. He remembers pain. And Rumlow had known. For eight years, Rumlow had known.

“If you want me to beg for forgiveness, you’re shit out of luck.” Rumlow’s still sitting. Bucky realizes that’s most likely due to chronic pain and an attempt to reserve as much energy as possible should the Soldier lash out, but it feels dismissive. Infuriating. Bucky _wants_ with a fervor he hadn’t known himself capable of, and he can’t even say what it is that he’s wanting. Fear. Rage. There’s something dark twisting in his spine that wants the commander’s praise. That wants to be a good Soldier. And even that, pathetic though it is, would be better than nothing.

“Like you could earn it,” Bucky says, teeth clenched.

“Like I’d want to.” Rumlow rubs a hand at his throat. Maybe it pains him to speak. He must have inhaled so much smoke and debris when he was trapped in the Triskelion. It’s not out of the question that the damage would have lingering effects. Bucky wants to grin at that, but it feels hollow when he does. “What happened to you was messed up. Some of the most fucked up shit I’ve seen in my life. But you weren’t the only person suffering in the world, not by a long shot. If we’d succeeded—if you’d done your fucking job properly—HYDRA would have given us a planet with a hell of a lot less suffering in it. You were a soldier even back when you had a mind of your own. You ought to know about sacrifice. Or did Rogers shield you from all the hard choices?”

Shielded _him_? Bucky had shielded Steve. With bullets to the heads of those who’d been a threat in the field. Rumlow knows better than most what the Soldier’s capable of, and the bastard still smirks as though he’s staring into the barrel of an empty gun. The bile’s back in Bucky’s throat, his blood a near-deafening rush in his ears. He wants to smash something, anything, but unless it’s Rumlow’s head, he knows the man will be sneering at him once he’s through. Grinning as wide as his new skin will allow, as if to say _Okay kid, that make you feel better?_

“I didn’t come here to listen to your fucked up ideology,” is all that Bucky says.

“Then why did you come here?”

If he says “to gloat” now, it’ll feel remarkably empty. Natasha had warned him this wouldn’t bring catharsis. But ever since he’s been away from HYDRA, he can’t stamp out that flicker of hope. “What were you doing in that mall?” he asks.

“Meeting up with my secret evil HYDRA buddies. Is that what you wanna hear? Apple’s a front, all of it. Steve Jobs was HYDRA.”

Silent, Bucky stares the way that the Soldier used to.

“Christ. I was seeing if they could fix my laptop. That satisfy you? Or do you want to check the damn thing for HYDRA emails?”

“Why would HYDRA want you anymore?” There. Now he has a wound of his own to pick at. “Your body’s ruined. You weren’t smart enough to keep Steve in custody even when you had him locked up in your van. You’re useless.”

And that gets Rumlow seething. “But you’re still wasting your time talking to the useless ex-commander. So what do you want?”

“I want—” But he can’t answer. He doesn’t know. He wants Rumlow miserable, locked away for the rest of his life, unable to escape the knowledge of all the wretched things he’s done. He wants to beat him so severely his face can never smirk again. But he wants more than that.

As handlers went, Rumlow had not been cruel. He recognized that for a weapon to function effectively, it had to be well-maintained. There were occasions when he had gone so far as to praise the asset for his performance. And the little shards of programming embedded too deeply within him to dig out still crave that efficiency and order. But it goes even further.

God help him, he had _liked_ Rumlow. He had craved affection that wasn’t laced with pain even when his mind had been too scrambled to understand what it meant to want. To be a child with Rumlow and Rollins in that house in the snow—that had been the most pleasant memory he’s ever regained from his time with HYDRA. Even now, that shred of solace can’t be wiped fully away.

“I want—I—” _I want you to be decent, so I don’t have to feel this conflicted when I think of you. I want you to be my friend. I want one of the few lights I saw in the dark not to be tainted once I get a clear look._ “I want—”

Rumlow, wary now, shuffles back on the couch. “You want me to be your new daddy?”

The look Bucky gives him is colder than cryostasis. “No.”

So much of Rumlow’s tension melts away that Bucky can nearly see the wave of relief wash over him. “Thank fuck,” he mutters before he seems to remember the room’s other occupant and steels his face back to cocky nothingness. “Well, now that we’ve cleared that up, why don’t you make your way back home to your friends and—”

“I’m sorry about Rollins.”

The sound Rumlow makes is not unlike the noises Bucky remembers from targets with punctured lungs.

“He was a good agent,” Bucky says. An agent for the wrong side, but a good one. “He was kind to me at my lowest moment. I am truly sorry.”

“It’s your fucking fault,” Rumlow snaps, a flush creeping up his neck. “If you’d done your damn job and shot Rogers in the head—if you’d kept the helicarriers from crashing down on top of us, he’d still be here!”

Bucky doesn’t answer. It strikes him that he has no idea if Rollins had a family. It’s strange to think that he and Rumlow may be the only ones mourning him, connected involuntarily by their grief.

“It’s your fault,” Rumlow repeats. “You malfunctioning piece of shit, you killed my best friend. It’s your fault. It’s m—” And he cuts off, eyes looking wet.

In a mission, the Soldier never observed his teammates mourn the fallen. There was never time. Surviving—that’s Rumlow’s mission now. Surviving his injuries, surviving without a prison sentence, surviving in a world that hates HYDRA more fervently than ever. It must occupy his every waking moment. This may be the first time he’s ever allowed himself to grieve.

It’s a painfully intimate thing to witness. Bucky doesn’t want to watch Rumlow mourn. It makes him uncomfortably sympathetic. For a moment he stands, fiddling with his backpack straps and trying not to see the man struggling not to weep.

“Do you want to hold my bear?” he asks.

“Go home, kid,” Rumlow says, though he must know that wasn’t the child’s voice.

Bucky doesn’t argue, turning to the hallway. “Come on.”

Involuntarily moving though it is to see Rumlow grieving, Bucky can’t help but feel a twinge of amusement at the horror on the man’s face when Natasha slips out of the bedroom where she’s been concealed, listening, before Bucky had even crept in through the other window.

*

Natasha’s frozen yogurt is cherry amaretto in a Styrofoam dish, garnished with sprinkles and gummy bears. The gummy bears appear to have frozen in the mixture, because she clamps her jaws down very hard whenever she takes a spoonful with one.

“Like it?” Bucky asks. He has a purple snow cone that he’s given a few half-hearted bites.

“It’s a got a little bit of a bitter aftertaste,” she says, sticking her spoon back into the dish. “But it’s good.”

For a while they walked side by side in silence, the only sounds being the scraping of their spoons against ice and Styrofoam. Then Natasha’s reaching out, her fingers gently catching and twirling the ends of Bucky’s hair.

He waves a hand up to block her, squirming away. One of the assignments his therapists gave him for the week was to come up with a list of boundaries, so he’ll grow more used to setting limits and advocating for himself. Bucky Bear found it easy to list things he wanted no part of, like washing machines or being carried by his ears. Bucky is still struggling with the task, but he thinks playing with his hair might be the first entry on his list. “What was that for?”

“You’re so easy to wind up,” she says, grinning, but the grin is good-natured. “Did you get what you wanted?”

Bucky nearly says he’s not that into frozen desserts before he realizes she’s asking about Rumlow. “I don’t know what I wanted.” The experience is still twisting around inside him. He wants to hate Rumlow. He wants to follow his commands and taste his pancakes. The excursion brought no closure in its wake. “It...it wasn’t cathartic.”

She nods. “So what have you learned?”

“That my big sister’s always right?”

Natasha laughs. Her hand darts up and dabs cherry amaretto on the tip of his nose.

Giggling, Bucky retaliates with a small handful of shaved ice raining down on her head.

By the time they return to the tower, there’s more yogurt and syrup on their faces than in their stomachs.

And if two days later, a brand new StarkBook is delivered to a rundown apartment, well, that’s just closure.

**Author's Note:**

> [](https://www.flickr.com/photos/152680774@N07/35562306270/in/dateposted-public/)  
>     
> Behold the glorious "Bucky Bear's List of Nos" by the incredibly talented [Feanor_in_leather_pants](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Feanor_in_leather_pants/pseuds/Feanor_in_leather_pants), which provided the inspiration for Bucky Bear's boundary list within this story.
> 
> If you enjoy this series, you should definitely check out [Perfect Little Snowflake](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3527060/chapters/7758347) by [WhatEvenAmI](http://archiveofourown.org/users/WhatEvenAmI/pseuds/WhatEvenAmI). It's a story set in the same universe, from Maria Hill's point of view as she puts together the defense case. And it is amazing. Also check out [What I Did on Vacation by Freddie Seymour](http://lauralot89.tumblr.com/post/112646045106/what-i-did-on-vacation-by-freddie-seymour), an anonymous story submitted to my Tumblr that retells _Trees Without Roots_ from Freddie's point of view.


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